


Counting Magpies

by LadyCharity



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Doomed Relationship, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Moral Ambiguity, Self-Sacrifice, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCharity/pseuds/LadyCharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thomas and Lucille Sharpe survive just long enough to face the consequences of their demons.</p><p>(Warning: Reading this work may require a suspension of morality)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Magpies

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I was done with fanfiction and look who's back.  
> The idea suddenly struck me in the middle of schoolwork and took me three days to hammer out 36 pages of LC-style plotlessness and angst. A thousand apologies for the thousand spelling or grammar errors this will undoubtedly have.  
> Note: I have not read the novelization of Crimson Peak, only watched the movie. Interpretations of the timeline, characters, and their motives are hodgepodges of my own.  
> Please enjoy.

“We can all be together.”

Lucille never heard ‘all.’ It was never a word that her father used about their family like that—unless he meant, you are all a disappointment, you are all a disgrace. Mother never used it—it was only ever about herself or her husband—we will leave you, we will know if you leave the attic, we will not forgive you if you disobey us, you will be punished, you will be punished—I will leave, Father will leave, you will stay, you two will not leave—

We can _all_ be together, said Thomas, and it sent a tremor down Lucille’s spine and into her stomach as if she had swallowed lightning.

“All?” she said. The word itself was too hard to form, as if she was learning a new language, of a country she never read about.

Thomas said nothing. Her breath fell from her lungs as she tightened her fingers around Thomas’ vest. She waited for him to correct himself, to frown because he never said such a word, where did she hear such a word? But he said nothing, and their home must be dying around them, shriveling, because she swore the floor gave way under her feet.

“Do you love her?” she said.

“This day had to come,” Thomas said.

All—there was no all, there was never an all, there was only Thomas and she. Only her brother, in the entire world there was no one but her brother and suddenly he threw open the doors, he took her hand to drag her out through the doors of that world and straight into the ocean to drown, to dive too deep until the sunlight could not reach and they could not see if they were holding onto each other or no one at all.

“You promised you would not fall in love with anyone—”

There was no such thing as all. He would leave her, that girl would take him away from her and she would have nothing. He was her world, her earth, her home—take him away and she’d be shuttling in the galaxy, beyond the moon, and even as a child the windows were barred and she could never look out to see what the stars were like.

He held her gently, in a way only he knew, and only she knew, and she suddenly hated his touch, because it was no longer hers, and perhaps now it never will be. How could you—she reached for her knife, reached for Thomas and plunged it into his shoulder—how could you, how could you betray me—when the world has given her her only love in her life and rip him away, so she could taste what heartbreak was for the first time.

Thomas jerked back. He backed against the wall—she stabbed his shoulder again and he gasped. Her fingers were warm. They were burning. Did the metal knife burn her? So burned, her fingers were red.

“Lucille!” Thomas said.

His eyes implored her—she knew that face too well. Soon, and she knew it was too soon, it would not be hers.

Lucille lunged forward, her knife drove forward, but her aim slipped, in a brief moment her passion overcame her senses, her affinity to calculated details faltered—she lunged forward and lost her balance and the knife drove into his chest.

Thomas gave such a sharp gasp that it startled her, and the world became clear, in a moment of clarity she saw the fogged glass shattered to reveal a horrid image, of the hilt of the knife protruding from Thomas’ chest. Was it in his heart, his lungs? It was deep, the handle rising with each faltering breath.

“Thomas—”

This was not right, this was not right—she didn’t mean to. Everything she ever did in her life after childhood was deliberate, was meaningful, was her choice, but she didn’t mean to, not this.

She fell out of the way as Thomas staggered, falling against the chair. His face was ashen, frozen, as if stopping his heart stopped everything, stopped time and the universe and the turning Earth. Barely breathing, he wrapped shaking fingers around the hilt.

“No, no—” She crawled to the foot of the chair, grabbing his wrists. “No, you mustn’t, you mustn’t—”

He raised his eyes to her. They were brimmed with tears. She never struck her brother, not once. She never let a blow fall upon him, not if she could help it, and she drove a knife into his heart, and he only looked at her with tears, and love.

His fingers did not loosen from the hilt. She placed her hand on his, trying to pry them away—they were stubborn and she thought for a wild moment that he had already died, rigor mortis set in and somehow time had passed with a fleeting, last breath, but his gasps of pain, as guttural as they were, were her only salvation.

“Thomas?” Edith’s voice rang out from the corridor.

Thomas’ face was greying. His eyelashes fluttered, his grip on the hilt was slackening. Lucille’s world was fast ending.

“Thomas!”

Edith was calling for him, calling for him to take him away from Lucille—but it was too late, wasn’t it, Lucille had already thrown him away for the both of them.

Lucille cradled Thomas’ face. He couldn’t keep his eyes raised toward her, couldn’t keep his eyes open long, but he was breathing, too hard but he was breathing, his gasps for life matched Edith’s gasp when she came into the room and saw Thomas and Lucille, coated in their own blood, worlds ending.

If Thomas was dead, there was nothing left to do but to drive her knife into Edith as well—his blood was on her hands, she would have sworn it. She would have broken every bone to chase after her, until there was nothing left of either of them, if Thomas was dead. But Thomas’ life was held together by a lone thread, he was still breathing but he wouldn’t open his eyes, not for her, not for Edith, not for anyone, so instead, Lucille could only scream: _Not Thomas!_

-

There was only one course of action that Edith could see—if she, if Alan, if any of them were to live, Thomas must stay dying.

When Thomas slumped, falling out of the chair and Lucille caught him, pulling him into her arms and screaming, Edith swore for a moment that this would be the last thing she saw before Lucille would turn her rage to her. But Thomas was still breathing, still bleeding, and there was nothing else in Lucille’s mind other than to keep Thomas’ breathing, and Edith kept breathing as a result.

“Not Thomas,” Lucille sobbed. “No, not him, not my Thomas!”

To keep alive, she needed Thomas alive. To keep Thomas alive, she needed Alan alive. To keep Alan alive, she needed Thomas dying—Lucille didn’t know Alan was still alive, but until her brother breathed soundly again, she wouldn’t give a damn about anything else.

And it did not escape her, that the one dying in Lucille’s arms was her husband. She did not know what to feel, other than that her knees went weak under her, and she didn’t want to tear away from this room, but only for a moment.

To keep alive, she needed Thomas alive. To keep Thomas alive, she needed Alan alive. To keep Alan alive, she needed Lucille to not come flying down to the lower level, if anything should happen, and end them there.

“Lucille,” Edith said.

Her voice still shook. She didn’t know why she expected that it would not.

Lucille did not move. She was trying to shake Thomas awake, but he would not—he was frighteningly still, but he was breathing.

“I know how to help,” Edith said.

Lucille raised her head to Edith, and Edith suddenly wondered if all this was a terrible idea.

“ _You_ —”

“Thomas can still live!” Edith said, speaking fast. “He can still live, he may still live, Lucille, you must listen to me—”

“You poisoned his mind,” Lucille said. “You _poisoned_ —”

“Thomas!” Edith said.

Lucille froze, halfway from getting up, but Thomas was still on her lap, unmoving—for a moment Edith could not see if he was still breathing, and felt as if her heart had given out until she saw the very faint rise of his chest.

“It isn’t too late,” Edith said. “Listen to me, Lucille—we can help—”

“You—”

“ _We can help_ ,” Edith said. “We will not lose him, Lucille—” She swallowed hard, thinking fast. She had only so many cards to play. “You will not lose him. But you must let us help.”

“You can help him,” Lucille said. She was breathless. Edith could not tell if Lucille believed her.

“Yes—yes, but I must get—I must get Alan,” Edith said. “You need to keep Thomas well!” she added immediately, when Lucille’s eyes flashed with realization. “Keep—keep his feet elevated. It will keep blood going to his head. You cannot leave him, do you understand?”

“You give _me_ orders?” said Lucille.

“You _will not lose him_ , Lucille!” Edith said. She was already moving away—she hadn’t enough time. Even if Thomas breathed now did not mean that he would still breathe by the time she returned. Alan could not run in his state, and Edith could not run if it meant leaving anyone behind. “For the love of God, Lucille, so that he may live!”

Lucille did not fight, did not rise to her feet and chase after her. She was frozen, eyes frozen, and Edith took that moment to bolt.

When the lift reached the cellars, she dashed for Alan. He was sitting at the rim of one of the clay wells—he had ripped off a part of his sleeve to compress against his wound, red with either his blood or the clay, or both. When he saw Edith running forward, he gathered himself onto his unsteady feet, pained but relieved.

“You’re all right,” he said. “Oh, thank goodness, Edith—”

“Alan, come quickly,” said Edith.

“Thomas said that there is an escape up that shaft,” Alan said, nodding to the opening where the machine drove its shovels. “We can leave up there—”

“We cannot leave,” Edith said.

Alan turned sharply to Edith. She shook her head.

“Come with me,” she said. “I need your help.”

“Why can we not leave?” Alan said. “Edith, what’s going on?”

“Thomas, he’s hurt badly,” Edith said. “He’s got a knife in his chest. He’s still alive, but—”

“No,” Alan said. When Edith drew back, he stumbled onward. “They could _kill_ us. They’ve tried. We stay one minute longer here and we’re dead.”

“She won’t chase after us,” said Edith. “Not when Thomas’ life is concerned.”

“Then that is why we must go, _now_ ,” said Alan. “When she is distracted, when she can’t run after us.”

“He’ll die without help, Alan,” said Edith.

“Oh, no, Edith,” Alan said. “No, don’t tell me—”

“If you tend to him, she wouldn’t kill you.”

“I don’t think _gratitude_ is how she bases any of her actions!”

“No, but he wouldn’t get better immediately,” said Edith. “He’ll still need a doctor’s help and it’ll be too much of a risk to lose you if he needs you—if he lives, which he won’t if you don’t come with me _now_ —”

“They killed their parents!” Alan said. “They killed three women, three _wives_ like yourself—they killed your father, Edith!”

Edith clenched her teeth. She did not forget the way her father’s nose was crushed and bent, how his head concaved and how he couldn’t even see her wedding day, as marked as that marriage was now. And most of all, she did not forget that fact. But now was not yet the place or time to muse on what was right to do and what she needed to do.

“I’m not forfeiting someone’s life for my own unless I have to,” Edith said. “But go—you should have never been caught up into any of this. And I’m sorry. Go—and find help in the village, if you can.”

She pulled away from Alan walked toward the lift. She knew that Alan would never leave her behind like this, and that he knew even if she stayed on her own she would only die—she didn’t know a damn about medicine. So when he limped after her, she did not feel her stubborn victory—it was only a matter of fact.

“No one’s survival ever depends on another’s, Edith,” Alan said, as the lift brought them out of the soil, into the air. “In the worst of times, never think about anyone but yourself.”

“I am,” Edith said.

Maybe it was sheer beliefs, maybe it was complete certainty that her plan was the right one, maybe it was denial that she could leave this place with Alan like he said. Maybe it was seeing a broken, tainted, twisted, corrupted woman catching her world in her arms as it fell apart and broke into pieces. Maybe, when she made her vows with Thomas, two became one flesh and his life was irrevocably, undeniably tied to hers, and she was thinking about herself after all.

It didn’t stop her heart from racing when they finally reached the attic, and there was only wheezing and sobbing echoing through the halls—whose was whose was indecipherable.  In a moment, fear seized her, and she wanted to run down the stairs after all, run far from this place and risk her life on how fast she could run, not how Lucille would react. She would rather die in the frozen winter than die with the last sight she ever saw was a pair of hateful eyes.

But most of all, she would rather live, so she pulled open the door, and ran to the attic room.

-

The moment Edith stepped into the room, hands wrapped around her throat.

She was shoved against the wall. Lucille’s face hovered before her, her elbows locked as she pressed against Edith’s throat. Edith immediately forced her arms in between Edith’s and pushed out against Lucille’s elbows, ripping off her grip from Edith’s throat, before darting out of the way as Lucille lunged for another blow.

“You killed him!” Lucille screamed. “You killed him, you murdered him, you—!”

“Alan!” Edith said.

Alan grabbed a hold of Lucille and shoved her against the wall, arms pinned behind her back. She thrashed underneath him as Edith flew down to Thomas’ side. He was still lying on the ground, unmoving, the patch of blood on his clothing growing darker and broader. Her hands hovered tentatively around him, uneasy of where to touch, when they finally landed against the hollow of Thomas’ neck. Like a dying bird, broken-winged, his pulse wheezed and fluttered on.

“He’s still alive,” Edith said. “Alan, what do I do?”

“Is he breathing?” said Alan, over Lucille’s screams.

Edith bent low towards Thomas’ face. She felt the weakest of breaths against her cheek.

“Yes,” she said.

“Roll him on his side,” said Alan.

Edith carefully cradled Thomas’ head as she pulled him onto his side. Her hands shook. She risked a glance over her shoulder towards Alan and Lucille. Alan was grimacing—the effort to hold Lucille back amidst his own wounds was gradually tearing him open.

“And?” said Edith. Thomas was dead weight, it uneased her how much he could not react to anything, not tightening his hand around hers, not pulling away or reaching forward, not keeping his head upright for her, like he was stitched of nothing but cloth.

“Pull his front leg forward—there you go,” said Alan. “I need to tend to him—dammit!”

Alan shoved Lucille against the wall when she tried to stamp on his knee. Lucille choked.

“Alan—”

“What am I supposed to do?” he said.

For a moment, Edith savagely thought of how much easier it would be to shut Lucille up, how keeping Thomas alive didn’t necessarily mean keeping Lucille alive—but she pushed those thoughts away. Love made monsters of them all, but she would be damned if she let hatred do the same.

“Tell me what to do,” said Edith.

“Don’t touch him!” said Lucille.

She nearly shoved Alan off of her, but Alan slammed her against the wall again. Edith almost cried for Alan to hold.

“Alan can tend to Thomas,” Edith said. She kept her voice raised, as if volume would cancel out the tremor. “Thomas still lives but if you won’t let him help—”

“I’ve tended to Thomas all my life,” said Lucille through dagger teeth. “He will live because of me—”

“Knock her out, at least, for peace and quiet!” said Alan.

Lucille’s eyes widened at this and she thrashed, like a drowning man at the last second, underneath him. Edith rose to her feet immediately.

“Go, Alan,” Edith said. “I’ll guard your back.”

Alan opened his mouth to protest, but Edith shook her head. He clenched his jaw before pushing Lucille into the corner and hurried to Thomas’ side. Edith stepped forward, as if to put a barrier between Lucille and Alan and Thomas if anything should happen. He bent low, checking Thomas’ vitals.

“I don’t think the knife struck the heart,” Alan said. “But it’s damn close. If I could just—”

Edith shouted. Lucille immediately ran forward to Edith. She dragged Edith by the hair with one hand and searched for a knife on the desk in the other. The moment Lucille took hold of the pair of scissors. Alan immediately grabbed the hilt in Thomas’ chest, poised to twist.

The room froze in that very moment. Lucille did not relinquish her grip of Edith, but she had stopped breathing immediately when Alan held Thomas’ death and life in his hand. Edith too scarcely felt her own breath, her own heart beating too fast and loud and overcoming the rest of her senses, for all the same reasons.

“You hurt Edith,” Alan said, “you do anything to harm Edith, you give her so much as a scrape and I swear, I will twist this knife into his heart.”

“Alan—” said Edith.

“I will not hesitate,” Alan said. He was shouting now. She knew it was for her life, her sake, that he did it, but with his hand held so precariously over Thomas, who could not do so much as react to it, made her own breath hitch. “The moment you do anything to her, I will kill him, I swear.”

Lucille did not move. Edith could hear every breath rip through her chest, from Alan’s, from her own, so vividly alive that none of this was a dream she could write away. When did reality become something more akin to a hallucination?

“Let her go,” Alan said. “Let her go and leave her alone, or I will just sit here and let him die.”

I’m sorry, Alan, Edith thought, feverishly, her eyes darting from him and Thomas to the scissors still interlocked in Lucille’s fingers. I’m sorry, I’ve drug you into this, I’ve drug you to your—

As if strand by strand, Lucille slowly let go of Edith’s hair. Edith immediately darted away, grabbing a chair and holding it before her, as if the legs alone could fight Lucille off. Lucille did not hunch her shoulders and growl like a threatened wolf, though. She stood frozen, eyes fixed on Thomas, as if all drive had left her and all desperation filled its place. Alan slowly loosened his grip on the hilt.

“I’ll need to perform surgery on him, right now,” said Alan. “I don’t have many tools with me. But if I’ve got hot water, rags, salt, a needle—have you got any of those?”

Lucille did not move. She could have died standing up for all Edith knew.

“Lucille!” Edith said.

Lucille’s eyes flickered from Thomas to her. There was a flash in that gaze, something Edith thought was unrecognizable—not like the cold shadows that would pass her face anytime Edith came into the room, or held Thomas’ hand—it was glazed and uncertain and excruciatingly fearful.

She spun around, her dress billowing with each step as she flew out of the room. Edith let go of her breath, setting down the chair and bending down next to Alan.

“I don’t know if he’ll make it,” said Alan. “Even if I’m here. You go. Say you’re getting a doctor from town—”

“Don’t,” said Edith.

“Run and get help, and stay there, don’t come back. See if you can send a telegram back to New York, get yourself back home—”

“If he isn’t going to make it, neither will you,” said Edith.

“I know,” said Alan.

Edith wanted to slap Alan for his unhelpful chivalry.

“I just said that I will not let my life depend on someone else’s forfeited one, didn’t I?” Edith said. “I’m not leaving.”

“Even if he lives, do you think they would let us live?” said Alan. “To them, we would still be a threat. They’d slit our throats. They’ve already tried—”

“We’re snowed in, Alan,” said Edith. “You’re still bleeding, I’m still hardly healthy—we would die outside anyway. We wouldn’t make it out there.”

“We wouldn’t make it in here,” said Alan.

“We’ve got a chance,” said Edith.

Alan had no time to respond. Lucille rushed back into the room, carrying a basin of hot water and a bundle of rags, a jar of salt, dressings for the wound. She nearly threw them all at Alan—she reached for Thomas, to cup his face, to hold him tight, but Alan barked for her to step away, he needs to work, step away. And by sheer miracle, or perhaps mistake, she conceded.

“Help him,” said Lucille. Her voice shook. Edith never heard something so fragile before. “Or I’ll kill you both.”

Alan exchanged a glance with Edith. He took in a deep breath, and pulled the knife out.

-

The hours were excruciating—Thomas’ life was on the tether, and Alan’s and her life was on the scaffold. But although he would not wake, Thomas continued to breathe, and so did the rest of them.

The knife just missed his heart, but nearly tore his lungs. Sweat had poured down Alan’s hairline as several lives balanced in his hands as he carefully performed crude surgery. When Thomas’ breaths became too shallow, too quiet, Lucille would fight, she’d throw inkwells across the room, she’d dig her nails into her arm until she drew blood and she didn’t feel a single tear on her skin. How intertwined brother and sister’s lives are, if Alan’s hand would just slip, it would cut two in one.

Alan would only break the silence when he instructed Edith to help—deeming Edith indispensable in the effort to save Thomas’ life. Edith worked deftly alongside Alan, whether it was to hold open the wound or even to hold Thomas’ head. She could feel the tension shift immediately when she would, because Lucille would watch the whole time.

Alan finally set down the knife on the wet rag. His hands were wet with Thomas’ blood, and his own wounds were making his fingers shake. Edith took the knife up instead.

“If there’s more to do,” she said, “then show me how.”

He shook his head. His face was white and dotted with sweat.

“I’ve done everything I could,” he said. “The knife came incredibly close. I need to close the wound, but—”

Edith picked up the needle. She had always floundered with her embroidery, her fingers too large and clumsy for tiny, neat stitches. Alan must have remembered, because he gaped the moment she held it up.

“Out of the question,” said Alan. “I need someone to keep check of his vitals, in case—”

“Was his wound infected?” said Edith.

Alan cast a brief sidelong glance at Lucille, whose attention had immediately piqued.

“Possibly,” he said. “I cleaned it, but he may still be very weak. I’ll need to attend to him as long as possible. In case he is still at risk after the wound is cleaned.”

“Your arm is shaking,” said Edith. Alan’s injured arm could hardly keep a glass of water held upright without sloshing its contents out over the rim. “I’ll—”

“No,” said Lucille. “Me.”

Edith swallowed hard. Lucille did not wait for an answer. She strode toward Edith, wrenching the needle out of her grip.

“This isn’t embroidery,” Alan said.

Lucille held up the needle as if to pierce Alan through the eyes. Edith immediately pulled Alan far from Lucille’s reach. The needle shook between Lucille’s fingers, the thread like a trembling fish line to rip out prey.

“Do you think it was Mother who tended Thomas’ wound when Father beat him?” said Lucille.

She knelt by Thomas, running a pale finger down his cheek. Her face nearly crumpled at the sight of his unmoving face, but she took in a deep breath and bent over him, with pristinely careful fingers, piecing together what she had broken.

Edith felt the tables shift. Nothing was certain, not their survival, not Thomas’, nothing. While the storm raged on outside, pouring snow through the roof and freezing the blood in their veins and out, any escape was uncertain. She rose suddenly to her feet, her heart racing.

“I’ll find more rags,” she said.

She hurried out of the room, just for a sense of relief, even if there was none. There were still bloodstains along the banister, the walls, whose was whose she couldn’t make sense of it, or if it had long already been staining the home and she was too naïve to notice. She leaned over the railing, gasping for breath, the biting cold winter air—calm down, calm down, she cannot panic, not yet, now now—

Footsteps followed after her. She spun around, half expecting another phantom, or Lucille, running toward her with blood red intent. It was only Alan, staggering toward her, wheezing.

“Is she left alone with him?” Edith said.

“He lives now,” said Alan. “Or, his wound will be closed. We need to run, then, _now_.”

“You said that you may need to attend to him,” Edith said.

“Maybe,” Alan said. “He lost a lot of blood.”

“Then he may not live tomorrow,” said Edith.

“Even if he survives after all this, what good will it do, Edith?” Alan said. “He would be hanged, at the very least.”

Edith swallowed hard. Alan’s face changed, just looking at her. Suddenly, he grabbed his shoulders.

“We must tell the police of this,” Alan said. “You _know_ this, don’t you?”

“It’s the legal thing to do,” Edith said. Her voice was faint.

“It’s the _right_ thing to do,” said Alan. “So we must run, while we can. We are not houseguests here, Edith. We know the truth—if we let ourselves be killed by them, no one would know the truth. They’ll try this again, and again, and again, there would be no _end_ to this!”

“Look at you, Alan!” Edith said. “You’ve lost blood, you can hardly run further than a mile like this! Look at me! We will only be buried in snow.”

“More testimony against them, then,” said Alan.

Edith hesitated. Alan took in a deep breath.

“There is nothing more for them,” said Alan. “Even if he was your husband—”

“And just like that,” Edith said. “Then all hope is lost.”

Alan looked at her incredulously.

“Your heart cannot speak for this matter right now like this,” said Alan. “I know, sending someone to their deaths is not easy, it’s _devastating_ , but—”

“We cannot reach anyone now anyway,” Edith said, desperately trying to change the subject. “We need to survive first, all of us, and then—”

“They’ve killed three women, Edith. Three _innocent women_ ,” said Alan. “They killed their own mother—they deserve more than to be hanged by now. Why do you seek to protect them?”

“I do not seek to protect them,” Edith said.

“You’re lying,” Alan said. She did not protest quickly enough. “They had tried poisoning you. They took you away from your home and won your trust only so they could kill you, and you would have pity on them?”

“I had called them both family, Alan,” Edith said. Her voice shook. “Whatever I do from here, I cannot forget that I had called them my family. They—I had chosen to be in their family.”

“And what has that done for you?” Alan said.

Edith pulled away. His voice softened.

“You weren’t alone,” said Alan. “You never are. You had me.”

Edith took in a deep breath. Nothing made sense anymore—nothing felt real. Love felt unreal, reality felt unreal, pain, human, woman, demon, felt unreal. She spoke on so that she could conjure them to at least pretend to be, and hope that reality would follow en suite.

“I know I have you,” Edith said. “But I didn’t call them my family because I had no other choice, Alan.”

Alan said nothing. Edith turned away. Thomas had betrayed her, had tricked her, had lied to her, had orphaned her, had loved her. The thought of him standing at the scaffold, noose around his neck, made her skin crawl. If he was wicked, and she was not naïve to not understand wickedness, she would not turn away when the executioner pulled the lever. But when his eyes opened, when he faltered and put his hand down, even at the very last minute, she could not help but to cry hold. She could not look the condemned in the eyes and say, to the one who gently held her and cherished her and said, I did, I did, I do, to her, and say, I care not.

“When he wakes, then,” Alan said. His breath was brittle, but his promise was otherwise. “If for your heart’s sake.”

“I’ll look for cloth,” she said. “For the both of you.”

She ran away. She counted her steps, counted each action she would take, each choice she would make under this crumbling roof. In all her stubbornness, her insistences, her sheer determination to live, she placed wagers on which one of those would be her last.

-

The doctor had carried Thomas into bed. He had grown so big all these years, her Thomas, so much taller than she, she used to carry him to his bed from the ground when they were young and she was still taller than her brother. Sometimes it was because he would stay up reading by the moonlight from the barred windows until he drifted asleep, and it would be so cold up in the attic, so cold he would shiver and fall ill so many times, and no blankets could quell his shivering, no touches, no skin. Sometimes it was because Father beat him until he couldn’t even sit up, and Mother would turn her face away and close the door behind her, so Lucille would gather Thomas into her arms, blood staining the front of her dress, and place him gingerly on the bed, clean the wounds, say, I’m taking care of you, she’s gone, he’s gone, it’s just me. I’m here. It’s only me.

Now, he lay still on the bed, paler than the pillows, breathing, not waking. This was not unfamiliar. Her hands were still stained with his blood. This was not unfamiliar. She made him bleed, badly. This was unfamiliar.

“He may live,” said the doctor, “but not unless I tend to him further.”

“You are buying yourself time,” said Lucille. “Like a pig hiding its fat.”

“I’m buying _him_ time,” the doctor said. “Only you can squander it.”

She did not move away from Thomas’ side. For all she knew, Edith and the doctor had already run off to freeze in the winter, to set fire in the house, but Thomas would not yet wake. He could not die, he could not leave her—she refused to let him. He must live—they will undo the damage that Edith had brought upon this house. He will realize, how much of a mistake Edith was, he will recant, he will see how loving her had only brought them both pain. He will see—the world was cruel, the world was wicked, it was she alone who could protect him from that.

But it was she who stabbed him, who nearly killed him.

“Thomas,” she said.

Father nearly killed him so many times. So many times it was a wonder why he never just ended both their miseries in the womb, if he hated the idea of them so much. She would shield Thomas with her body, promising him and herself, you will not touch him, you will never touch him again—and she broke those promises for years until the last straw.

She placed a hand on Thomas’. It did not grip back. His fingers were still in her palm, deft, long fingers that carefully carved faces and machines. Father hated them. Said they were too delicate, he would crush them against his heel. Mother shied away from them, when they would try to reach for the hem of her dress, she pulled her skirt away before her son could hold her.

The house groaned. The walls wept blood and clay. Lucille did not tear her eyes away from Thomas. His breathing was light, feathery, uneasy. She willed herself to hear only that.

Monsters, said the house. Monsters, the both of you.

Thomas lay still under the sheets. He may have only been sleeping, but he was dying. He said it himself—they were dying in this house, rotting, fading, all these years. They were rotting the moment they were born.

Monsters, said the walls, the drapes. Monsters, wicked devils.

Lucille lifted her head slowly. She could see Mother’s reflection in the glass, against the snow. Maybe it was her own.

“How could you,” she said, hollow.

Edith was not the first to see the past within these walls. Edith was not the first to recall their mother. And Edith—foolish, wretched Edith—did not even see half of it.

“How could you,” she said.

Every night they haunted Lucille. It was Mother and Father that screamed the loudest, eyes familiar even when soulless, brandishing their crooked fingers and stoning them with judgment, words, blows—monsters! Monsters, the both of you! Lucille ended their lives when they threatened Thomas’ too far, ended their lives to _protect him,_ and they tormented her every night. Scream until she could not sleep, spit upon Thomas even in death, call him disgusting, call them deplorable, call them a mistake. Her parents whipped them, stripped them of all love and relationship, beat them, locked them away and never spared love for them for reasons only known to themselves—and when their children’s ghostly faces haunted them in the hallway, in the middle of the night, Father would just bash their heads with his cane and drag them back to the attic.

“How could you do this to us,” said Lucille. Her teeth were clenched. She could not look away from the apparition—her imagination, or was it a glimpse into Hell? They could not touch her, harm her—the dead could not hurt her more than she would let them. But they locked themselves to her. “How could you do this to him, how could you—?”

Thomas let out a breath. Lucille held hers. His head shifted, just a little, but he did not wake. Lucille leaned closer, clasping his hand between both of hers. Thomas, my dear Thomas—but he stilled again, chest rising gingerly. Why wouldn’t he wake? She was waiting, for so long, for him.

It was too long for Lucille until finally Thomas stirred again. His sigh lingered and his eyes drifted open, just for a moment before closing again, for only as long as a breath, but Lucille held on tightly, waiting with bated breath. They fell open, as if by accident, but when his gaze locked onto her and he gave a sigh, her heart beat again.

“Thomas,” she said. Her eyes welled with tears. “Thomas, my brother—”

“Lucille?” he said.

His voice was weak, croaking only enough to barely catch from only two feet away. She sank into him, kissing his cheek, his forehead. His breaths were quick and tense.

“Lucille—” He coughed and gasped in pain. She cupped his face in her hands. “You—are you—?”

“You will live,” Lucille said.  “We will live. We will both live.”

His hand ghosted over his bandaged wound. Lucille tried to brush it away, but he deftly avoided her touch. She drew back. He closed his eyes, struggling to breathe. He looked like he was ill, scarcely breathing and faint on the bed, an uneasily common sight since childhood.

“Was this all a dream?” he said.

She latched onto this immediately.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, all of it. It’s just me, Thomas. Only me. We’re together, no one else. We’ve never parted.”

Thomas opened his eyes again. He did not look at Lucille with the relief and joy that she had waited for—confusion, uneasiness, pain. Why did he look at her so?

“I dreamt of magpies, Lucille,” he said. He was breathless, weak. “I kept trying to count them but I lost track, each time. They would take off from the grass, all at once, and I would not know which I’ve already counted. I couldn’t make it past nine.”

“Shh, shh,” Lucille said. She brushed his hair from his face. “Nothing but dreams.”

“I would try and I would always lose count,” he said. “And I didn’t know why I was so afraid—”

“You’re alive,” Lucille said. “There is nothing for me to fear anymore.”

Thomas closed his eyes under her touch. She fought back tears as she smiled—she nearly forgot everything else, when her world breathed under her hand.

“Where are they?” Thomas said. “Are they still here?”

Lucille knew immediately whom he meant. She stayed her hand—he was so fragile, and she could not be the one to see him break before her eyes.

“You do not need to worry,” said Lucille. “I will take care of all this. I will deal with them myself, you must rest and stay alive—”

“No, Lucille,” said Thomas. “Please.”

Lucille’s hand paused in mid-brush. Waking up has brought them back where they started. Her fingers trembled. She didn’t know where to hold on to keep him from darting away, flying away.

“I’m begging you, sister,” said Thomas. “Please.”

“You do not understand,” Lucille said. “We cannot. You are risking the both of us—”

“Let them live, Lucille,” Thomas said. “Don’t hurt them, Lucille, oh sister, please—”

“They will run to the police, to the city,” said Lucille. “They will come after us, with torches and chains. They will hang you—Thomas, they will throw me into that asylum again, they will kill us both—”

“I cannot bear for them to die!” Thomas said. His eyes shone—he was always so easily moved, as a child. Even when the three worthless, nameless women before Edith finally passed, he would not be able to bring himself to throw the bodies into the clay. “Lucille, no more. I will ask for nothing else, I will ask of you nothing else—”

“Everything I’ve done for you,” said Lucille. “Everything I’ve ever _sacrificed_ to keep you alive, to keep you safe, and you would throw that all away!”

“You would take their lives!” said Thomas.

“They would condemn ours!” said Lucille. “We would lose each other—do you not understand that? We would lose each other, we would have nothing left.”

“Edith is—”

“You _love_ her!” Lucille tried to spit those words out with disgust, with disapproval, as if she had tried to swallow a maggot. She could only manage a choked cry. “You love that wretched child, more than me, that you would have me thrown into that—that madhouse again!”

“No!” Thomas said. He could hardly manage speaking at a level tone, but each word was a pang to his chest as he struggled for Lucille to listen. “You will not be locked away, not again—”

“Do you think she will not tell?” said Lucille. “That she would not throw us to the dogs? You love her, you _love_ her—do you think she would still love you? After all that you had done to her, lied to her?”

Thomas said nothing. His pale face was haunted. Lucille lowered her voice.

“Why would she still love you?” said Lucille. “After you lied to her, sought her only for her money? She would spit on you, she would let you die here had it not been for me. Only I would love you, Thomas, only I can.”

The words made Thomas wince. She hated to see her brother in such pain and heartbreak, but it was the truth. And he will see she could heal those pains for him and her alone, it was the truth.

“But she stays,” Thomas said faintly. “Even if she no longer loves me, I cannot hurt her. I wish you would understand, Lucille—”

Lucille almost said, _I do!_ , except Thomas lay so weak and wounded on this bed, and her throat caught the words before they could slip out.

“You remember, don’t you?” she said, her voice softer than an echo. “How, when you first took me out of that hell, that madhouse—I would not move from the chair you set me on for days?”

“I remember,” said Thomas.

“How I screamed until I spat blood, how my ears were flooded—flooded with the laughter and cries of wretches like me,” said Lucille.

“I would hold your hand through it all,” Thomas said.

“You held me through it,” said Lucille. “And washed my hair until it grew long again. You fed me, and if I couldn’t swallow, you wouldn’t force it down.”

“I love you, Lucille,” Thomas said, broken.

“I thought I would have died in there,” said Lucille. “I thought I would never see you again.”

“But I’m here,” said Thomas. He tried to grasp her hand, but she pulled away. “I’m _here_.”

“You will not be,” Lucille said. She had spoken of this so that Thomas would see, that he would understand his folly, but the more she remembered the asylum, the rough hands of the caretaker and the dark, cramped rooms shrill with madness, her heart raced. “You will leave me, you’re abandoning me there again. All you ever wanted was to rid yourself of me, isn’t that true? You’ll throw me away in there—”

“Lucille, Lucille!” Thomas said. His fingers grazed hers, but he could not hold on. “If I could give my life to save you all, you’d never be afraid again.”

His hand shook. Lucille wanted to hold it, but she did not.

“But you can’t,” Lucille said. “You will choose her life over mine. That she live so that you will die, and I will rot.”

“We’ve taken so many lives,” said Thomas. “And I was cruel never to protest until now.”

“Because we needed to _survive_.”

“What do we know about living?” said Thomas. “This dying house, these blackened memories—living like leeches with human faces. I’m a spider, Lucille, casting my web and for what? I’ve become vermin, but at least vermin follow the rules of nature.”

In a flash of a moment, Lucille raised her hand to strike Thomas. He sensed it immediately, and only closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. She stopped herself just before bringing her hand down upon him, frozen, shaking, her heart crumbling like the dry, crushed clay underneath their home that should have long been sunk and buried.

“You do not want to love me,” said Lucille.

She let her hand slowly fall to her side. Mother had spat upon them, the world would burn them at the stake if they could, but Thomas had stayed by her side through it all, never looking away, never turning her back on her, even if their love was not the love meant for either of them, until now. He pulled away, his face stunned by the grime on their skin, on _her_ skin, he was leaving her, she was alone.

“You’re ashamed of me,” Lucille said.

Her voice broke. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but she stood up from the bedside and turned away, making for the door.

“Lucille—”

There was a thud, like falling posts, behind her. She turned back to him. Thomas had tried to stand, tried to get out of the bed to follow her, but was too weak to even sit up properly and fell to the floor instead. He let out a cry of pain, crumpling to the ground. Lucille thought to just stand still, to teach Thomas a lesson, but he shuddered and coughed, hardly able to keep himself up, that she returned immediately to him.

“You stupid boy,” Lucille said. Her throat was hard. His white shirt was dotted with blood. “You stupid child, look what you’ve done to yourself.”

She hoisted Thomas off the ground and back into the bed. His face was twisted in pain as the wound reopened, each breath stretching it wider.

“Is the doctor still here?” Thomas said between short breaths.

Lucille nodded. She pulled down the collar of his shirt to reach the wound, mopping it with a cloth.

“Call for him, please,” Thomas said. “I don’t—I don’t feel well.”

“I’ll take care of this,” Lucille said.

“Please,” said Thomas. He was breathing heavily—he wouldn’t look at Lucille. “The doctor.”

She pressed a hand on his forehead. The doctor had said that his wound was not infected, but she had no reason to trust his word. Thomas did not burn with a fever, but he quaked miserably in the sheets.

“She should pay,” Lucille said. He was so delicate that she could crush him in one hand. “They should all pay for what they’ve done to you.”

“They’ve done nothing to me,” Thomas said.

Lucille put down the rag. Thomas looked at her with the same kind, gentle eyes as years before, in a way that could not be attributed to blindness. If he accused her, if he glowered at her with traitorous betrayal, she would muster a fight, but he lay there loving her as always, despite everything.

“I’ll call for him,” she said.

She left the room, closed the door behind her. She could still hear his coughing on the other side of the door. She was shaking. This cold was unbearable.

-

He sometimes had nightmares of hands. Familiar, unfamiliar, reaching, grabbing, pulling, digging nails into his skin. Clawing, drawing blood, locking down his wrist so that he couldn’t run away no matter how much he pulled. Striking him, choking him, claiming him. Thomas used to memorize hands by their touch, even if he could not see. He would close his eyes, waiting for it to stop, or waiting for relief, but he could tell when it was Father’s hands, Mother’s, Lucille’s. They had their own way of gentility. They had their own way of cruelty.

Edith’s hands sluggish; blood was still dried underneath the fingernails, and the poison while still weak to kill her, nevertheless dragged her bones like a lethargic swimmer. When she changed the bandages on Thomas’ wound, she did not grip his shoulder to keep him still, did not hold too tightly until he cried out. Edith would not look at him, hardly spoke a word when she came with the dressings, but when she cleaned and re-bandaged his wound, he could pretend, for a moment, that this was what domesticity was meant to be.

“Does it still storm?” he finally said.

Edith did not pause. Thomas sank into silence again. The house wept—he heard its howling tunnel through the halls, the snow blanketing the windows. Edith did not remain here out of choice, but she was here, and still alive. Scarred, weak, alive.

She leaned in close to wrap the bandage around his chest. Her hair trickled down upon his shoulder. One part was too short, snipped right before the ear—he didn’t remember it. He reached a hand to touch it. His fingers drifted across her cheek, and her features froze—she drew back immediately.

Thomas let his hand fall back to the bed. Edith fixated her gaze anywhere but his eyes, her fingers stumbling to work faster.

“Edith,” he said.

Edith pressed her lips together. There were still scars across her face, clotting cuts. Half a year ago, she was pink-cheeked, beaming, glasses magnifying eyes glinting with excitement. Now she was ill, frightened, bitter, because of him.

“I’m so sorry, Edith,” he said.

She finished the last of the bandages and set the dressing back on the nightstand. She wouldn’t turn her head to him, and he knew he did not deserve that mercy.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

His voice faltered to a whisper; he could hardly breathe enough to speak. Her hands were folded on her lap, in frozen fists, each muscle taut—did she mean to jump away, at the sign of danger? There was nothing left he could do—even his words could not further betray her more than he has already done.

“Are you all right?” he said. “Are you hurt, are you still ill?”

He did not mean to touch her, but his hand reached for her outside of his will for hers. When he touched her knuckle, her face crumpled and she stood from the bed, like his touch was more potent than the poison Lucille had drowned her in.

“Edith,” Thomas said.

She stood by the window, trying to compose herself. She looked small against the white glass, her nightgown nearly blending her into the storm, until he could not tell if she was outside or in. She dragged her hand furiously over her eyes, trying to stem them before they had a chance to come out, and it struck Thomas again and again how much he hurt the only two people he cared about.

His throat tightened, and he thought that she would run out at that, as she ought to, leave him alone and leave him, but she turned away from the window to him again, eyes red and cheeks damp but no tear in sight. He wanted to hold her—he made her weep so many times.

“You didn’t kill Alan,” said Edith.

She croaked her words, her voice shook but did not give up halfway. Brave, powerful Edith, who never shied from her heart. What a storyteller she would make someday!

“Why?” Edith said. “You could have killed him, killed me, and all my money is yours. Why?”

“I couldn’t,” he said.

“Couldn’t?” said Edith. “Three women before me, Thomas. Three other women who had their own Alans, their own families and homes—what did I ever do or give you that they did not? What did they do to deserve being murdered and I—?”

The truth was stuck in the middle of Thomas’ throat, not because it was untrue, not because it was difficult to say, but he knew that she would not believe him. She shook her head, gripping the ends of her long hair as if that alone was her rope to security.

“I was a fool,” Thomas said. “I should have saved them, I should have wanted to save them, as I wanted to save you.” His throat was caught. He spoke on anyway. “I should have never lied to you.”

“I should have never loved you,” Edith said.

Thomas’ chest hurt in a way that spread to his fingertips, down his stomach. He could not tear his gaze away from her. She was rooted in the spot, between the window and his bed, unable to shout at him and unable to run away.

“Who did I love, Thomas?” said Edith. “A man who waited in the rain to ask me to come with him to dance, who read my writing and didn’t judge my story, who did everything to make me smile on the ship away from my home—who was that lie?”

“Not a lie,” Thomas pleaded. “I did not act, I did nothing in reluctance, or—”

“You did it so you could trick me!” said Edith. He must have frightened her so much—betrayed her so much. “You only asked for my hand for my money, you only tried to love me for my money.”

Truth after truth was hurled after him, and no protest could he make, because what was his love if it caused Edith to suffer, and Lucille to break?

“I married you, thinking that we would start a family together,” Edith said. Her eyes welled with tears again but that did not lessen her voice, her words. “That we’d grow old together. You married me because—”

“Because I was selfish, and stupid, and wicked,” Thomas said. “Edith—I am a monster, at best—a wicked beast, but please—believe me when I say that, even if it is worthless and ugly, I love you.”

She did not have to love him back anymore—what was there left to love when he had done nothing but ruin her? She did not have to accept his love, did not have to stay, did not have to show him mercy, did not have to let him live. But he could not bear if she thought his heart was, to the very end, a lie, that his love never existed for her, that he did not wish for her everything.

Edith’s face fell. She risked a step closer to him, but did not reach to touch him. Only perhaps a week ago, two, three, she lay side by side with him, on this very bed. If he had found his courage faster, if he would have only put his love before himself sooner, what if they would have never bled a single drop? But three other women would have still suffered, Edith’s father would have still suffered, there was nowhere in time far enough he could go back to mend it all, unless he never drew breath the moment he was born.

“Do you even know what love is, Thomas?” said Edith.

She did not say it cruelly, condescendingly, like he had done at her father’s home when Mr. Cushing had bribed him to break her heart—only for Thomas to do so freely. She said it so quietly, her voice so thin, and still so heavy with heartache, it carried the weight of his sins in that small, piercing question.

He wished he could say yes, and that she would believe him. He wished he could say that he knew how to love, except he couldn’t forget her face when she found him and Lucille in the attic—after her fears were confirmed, after she knew her life was at stake, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, the last crime, that she could take. He had known, even then, that he yearned for it too, to live side by side with Edith, to grow old with her, but what good was want when he did nothing for it?

“If I do not now,” he said, “I wish I did..”

“I loved you,” said Edith.

“Even now?” he said.

She did not speak at first. She came to Thomas’ bedside, helping him put back on his shirt, and gently eased him back to a lying down position. It hurt to move, but her hands guided him, holding him when he did not have enough strength for himself. She smoothed the covers over him.

“The storm hasn’t stopped,” she said, as if to draw this conversation to a tight close, like a drawstring pouch, in which the beginning and the end finally meet, and everything in between tightly hidden away. “Sometimes it seems like it never will.”

“There are still the horses,” said Thomas. “And the wagon.”

“You wish me away so soon?” said Edith.

“You should be safe,” said Thomas.

“If I leave,” Edith said. “If Alan and I leave, you will…”

And yet, she could not say it out loud.

“What, no words?” said Thomas. He tried to smile. “Have I chosen too merciful a wife to love?”

Edith leaned in closer, as if to kiss him, but stopped herself just a breadth away. She closed her eyes, and rested her forehead against his. He wanted to stroke her hair. He could not bring himself to touch her.

“You and Lucille,” he said. “You both deserve so much better than me.”

You’re all I had left, Edith had said. You’re the only one, Lucille had said, and of all the people they could have had, to give everything and think them whole, it was him.

“You are always looking back into the past,” said Edith. “You’re not there. Not anymore.”

His heart hurt tremendously. She pulled away from him—somehow, he fell asleep.

-

Edith closed the door behind her. When she turned back, Lucille stood in the opposite end of the hallway.

Edith could only assume that Alan was lying dead somewhere and she was next, but there were no knives in Lucille’s hand, no energy in those arms to drag Edith to the edge and throw her down three stories again. Her face was gaunt—she could have been taken for the ghosts that Edith couldn’t shake off, but she was ashen like the snow, save the red ring still weighing down on her finger.

But she did not move to attack Edith—Edith was the one with the pair of scissors, this time. She did not even snarl at her. She stared at Edith as if Edith was the phantom, and Lucille had waited for a long time to be haunted.

“Do you still love him?” said Lucille.

Her voice was dangerous in the way that it was uncertain. Predictable, but dangerous nonetheless. Edith could tell what Lucille would do just by listening, and she could not promise herself she could be an equal match for her.

When Edith did not answer quickly enough, Lucille raised her voice.

“I said, do you still love him?” she said.

“He loves you, Lucille,” said Edith. “Nothing will ever change that.”

“Anything can change that,” said Lucille.

“Then it is not love,” said Edith.

Lucille reached Edith in only two steps. She struck Edith across the face. Edith took it. Between the two of them, Lucille probably stung more.

“What do you know about love?” said Lucille. “You don’t know anything about loving—loving Thomas, you know nothing.”

Edith gritted her teeth. If Thomas had lied to her, then Lucille had corrupted her. On that accusing, indignant face had been the self-satisfied smirk, the victory, when describing just _how_ she had killed Edith’s father, how beautiful Thomas was that made him ripe for her suffocation, how Edith should give herself up because she had ‘nothing to live for.’

But this woman, for reasons that Edith could not name comfortably, Thomas cared for dearly, even if his love could only be wretched. Whom Thomas would rather let live if it meant him dying, who nearly killed him and he only loved more deeply in return. It struck her, for a moment, how she was almost reminded of Thomas and herself.

Lucille was holding her shoulder strangely. She still wore the dirtied nightgown, her collar cracking with dried blood. She did not let Alan come near her for the pen wound that Edith had given her, and Alan did not readily protest. The wound had closed, but looked swollen and ugly. It could easily be infected.

Silently, Edith set down the knife and the roll of bandages. She still had some hot water in the basin left, and one of the rags was unused. She dipped the rag into the water, wrung it damp, and stepped forward to Lucille.

Lucille immediately slapped her hand away. Edith did not flinch.

“What are you doing?” said Lucille.

“I just want to help,” Edith said.

Lucille glared at Edith. Edith held out the hot wet rag—an offering. Lucille looked as if she would rather shove Edith through the wall.

“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want it,” Edith said. She tried her best to keep her voice even. And to keep an eye on all of Lucille’s hands. She was fairly certain that the pair of scissors were still under her feet. “But that wound doesn’t look good. It should be cleaned, at least.”

“ _You_ gave it to me,” Lucille said.

“And I’m still coughing up blood from time to time,” said Edith. “Are we even?”

Lucille did not move to take the rag, nor did she actively move away, so Edith reached forward and pressed it against her shoulder. Lucille hissed in pain and hit Edith away.

“You maggot!” Lucille said.

“I’m sorry,” Edith said. “I just want to clean it.”

Lucille ripped the rag away and roughly mopped the wound herself, far less gentle than Edith would have intended. But Edith kept quiet about that. Lucille clenched her teeth—if she was hurting herself, she didn’t stop.

Edith unscrewed a bottle of iodine. She held it out to Lucille. Lucille eyed her suspiciously. Edith was tempted to shoot back at her that it was not her intentions to poison her, if that at least would make one of them.

“Iodine,” she said. “It’s to clean the wound.”

“No,” said Lucille.

“It would help,” said Edith. “Look.”

She dabbed a drop on the back of her hand. It stung, but did not burn through, if that was what Lucille worried of.

“Don’t you smell it?” said Edith. “Didn’t you ever have to disinfect wounds with this?”

Lucille took the bottle and held it up to her nose. She must have been familiar, because she did not hurl it back at Edith.

“Where did you take this?” Lucille said.

“There is a bottle of it in Thomas’ workshop,” Edith said. Lucille looked up sharply at her. “He had cut his hand on the machine. I was binding it up.”

“He did not tell me he was injured,” said Lucille.

“It wasn’t deep,” said Edith.

“Only I take care of Thomas,” said Lucille. “Every cut, every illness—only _I_ can touch him.”

“You were busy,” Edith said, impatient.

“No one would help him but me,” said Lucille. “No one ever does.”

She dabbed her swollen wound with the iodine. It was an angry shade of red. Lucille did not wince.

“Who hurt him?” said Edith.

Lucille did not answer. Edith bent low to pick up the scissors. When Lucille shifted, she shot back up immediately, in case Lucille thought to grind her heel into Edith’s fingers. Lucille watched her, half-bitter, half-amused, somewhere between vindictive and vexed.

“Who hadn’t?” said Lucille. “Father wanted him dead. He tried killing him. All the time. Sometimes he tried strangling him. Sometimes he tried leaving him for dead in the woods. Dear, sweet, Father.”

Edith did not take her eyes off of Lucille, but she slowly unraveled the gauze to snip off a sheet for Lucille.

“Did he hurt you?” said Edith.

Lucille said nothing. Edith thought of her own father—gruff, firm, but kind, doting, encouraging. Some thought him too brash or too stubborn, but no one ever doubted how much he had loved her. He never raised a hand on her—he never frightened her. She stung.

“He always hunted grouse,” Lucille said. “That was all that you could find flying here. No lakes for ducks or swans. No trees for magpies. Just ugly, foul grouse.”

Edith handed her the strip. She moved to wrap it across her shoulder, but her hand could not reach the back—the wound must have hurt, she could not raise her hand too high. Edith reached behind and took the ends of the gauze, bringing it back within Lucille’s reach.

“He would never cook them,” said Lucille. “Even when we were starving, he did not hunt for food. Only for his own amusement. He would bring back ten at a time. He would chase after a flock for slaughter. And forget about everything and everyone else.”

Her voice became steel. Edith kept the scissors tucked behind her.

“And then, one day,” Lucille said. Her voice was smooth, controlled, it made Edith think of the times when Edith had absolutely no control. She should be afraid. But she continued to help bandage Lucille. “In the summer, a flock of magpies were perched on the one tree, just outside the house. They were beautiful. Snowy white and pure black. Delicate, gentle, intelligent things. The first time I’ve seen them outside of a book.”

They moved in sync, in choreography, bringing the end of the gauze back and forth, back and forth. They both stood by the edge, against the railing. Every second was a surprise—Edith did not know what to expect next.

“I opened a window—the only one I could force open in the attic,” said Lucille. “I thought I could coax it inside. I wanted to show Thomas. They were so beautiful, like him. I wanted to touch their wings. But Father caught us, hanging out the window. Dragged me back inside, nailed shut the windows. Demanded why I was being so wicked. Thomas was young. He was only six. He thought he could tell the truth to a father.”

Edith felt her heart sink.

“He told father, that he only wanted to see the magpies,” she said. “Not to blame me, he had only wanted to see the magpies, and I was just being too kind. Father whipped him until he couldn’t move, and then finally let me take the rest of the beatings. Mother didn’t give him his meals for days. I gave him all mine. The next morning, there were ten dead magpies under the tree.” Lucille smiled ruefully. “Father was always a skilled marksman.”

“I’m sorry,” Edith said.

It came to her lips—and to her heart—before it came to her mind. She immediately held her breath, afraid that she had gone too far, and Lucille would take it for pity and a death sentence. But Lucille did not react, only handed the last end of the strip of gauze to her. Edith tied the gauze firmly. She pulled away, but not without checking that the scissors were still behind her. She felt the metal against her sash. Lucille did not look at Edith. She ran her finger along the gauze.

“Is it too tight?” Edith said.

Lucille looked up at Edith. Her face was stony, set, her lips a thin line and her face unmoving. And yet, somewhere in those blue eyes, Edith swore she saw a bit of Thomas in them, even for just a second.

But there was no moment to ponder on that. Lucille rushed down the staircase before Edith could blink.

-

Thomas was nine when he stood by the window—the nailed, barred window, with only strips of moonlight seeping through. It was past midnight but he was not in bed, and Lucille was urging him, go to bed, or else you won’t wake up in time tomorrow, and then you know what Mother would do to you. But he would not budge.

His hands were thin, they gripped tightly on the metal bars. His face was thin, ghostly in the dark, pure and haunted. He rested his forehead against the bars, his breath barely reaching the glass to fog it.

Lucille, he had said. Do you think, if we could open this window, if we jumped—

In the back of the house, where it was only the servants’ staircase, that stretched high and far, the stairs would be littered with dead birds. Tufts of feathers and splintered bones. Scuffed by clomping feet of the servants.

Lucille used to ask the servants, why was this so?

Birds would get in through the windows, the kind ones would say. Leaking holes in the roof. They perch on the rafters and some fall. That’s all.

She would think of their wings and wonder, why not fly? But birds have stiff necks and cannot turn to look up from where they have gone, or why they had fallen. Their eyes are small, they could only stare straight down, to the black abyss that was the end of the stairs. The narrow staircase was too narrow and cramped for them to spread their wings and fly—birds could only fly forward, never above. They could never climb out of an abyss.

Lucille, Thomas had said.

If we open this window, if we jumped—

Would we fly or fall?

Lucille closed the kitchen door behind her.

It was silent. The fire had gone out—the wind had sucked it dry. It was freezing—the clay had turned into rock along the walls, the water forming a thin sheet of ice at the bottom of the basins.

She loved Thomas. Loved him until there was nothing left about her. Loved him until, if he was gone, there was nothing left of her. But he loved his wife, loved Edith with that heart of his that was so full, so untried, so genuine that it was like a large, stone jug, and someone had taken a large rock and broke off the bottom so that it poured love unconditionally and fully and unreservedly until there was nothing left. He loved Edith, that he would rather be hanged than to see her die. He was always so small, so quiet, so nervous when he loved Lucille. His courage grew, when he loved Edith.

Then, there was no answer to it. She loved her Thomas, but she could not bear another life in the madhouse, to be reduced to nothing but loneliness. She loved her Thomas, but she could not bear to break his heart, anymore. There was no other answer.

She set out the tea set on a tray. Very carefully, very tenderly, each in its proper place. The tea set was a gift that the first of Thomas’ earlier wives had gifted Lucille with—it was not unappreciated. A delicate, richly china that splashed color in this dying house. She opened the canister of tea leaves—one spoon in each cup. She set that aside. She remembered where she last put the poison. She scooped five spoonfuls into each cup—more than the usual allotment. It would taste bitter, like molten metal, but she was not afraid of a bad taste. She set a kettle full of water on the stove to boil.

-

Edith found Alan digging through old armoires. They were so old that the hinges had rusted, and the clothing inside moth-eaten and odorous. None of that bothered him—he took the coats by the shoulder, whipped them until dead moths flapped off and dust billowed in the air, and draped it over his shoulder until he formed a hunchback of coats.

“What is this?” she said.

Alan turned toward her. His face filled with both relief and urgency.

“Edith,” he said. “Are you feeling better?”

Only several days without drinking Lucille’s tea at the very least did not make her feel worse. She reached out her hands to take some of the coats off of Alan; his wounds were cleaned and bandaged, but he still walked with a limp and a wince.

“The snow is starting to let out,” Alan said. “Once the storm stops, we must go, immediately.”

She knew this day would come, sooner or later. They could not continue existing in this limbo, this frozen epilogue where she could comfortably not think about the decision she would have to make.

“You’re taking their coats?” she said.

“There are rooms full of old clothes in this house,” he said. “They wouldn’t notice five or six missing.” He whipped another one out of the closet. A forest of moths made their escape. “They must be twenty years old.”

“What about them?” said Edith.

Alan stopped. He lowered the coat he was just cleaning out, his face drawn.

“Are you still worried about them?” said Alan.

Edith bristled at the word ‘worry.’ The way Alan said it made her feel as if he thought of her as some weak, fluttering damsel who didn’t know a damn about common sense because of her maternal instincts, like in the romance novels that editors fancied out of her.

“They won’t stay here for long, anyway,” Alan said. “Once the police reach them—”

“So it’s settled, then?” said Edith. “We bring the police into this?”

“Edith, please,” said Alan. “They’re criminals. They’re _murderers_. If you weren’t married to one of them, you would have run to the police yourself in a second.”

“Well, therein lies the rub,” said Edith. “I am married to one of them.”

“Do you still love him, Edith?” said Alan.

“No one in this house has not asked me this,” Edith said.

“Because a good number of things hinge on that fact,” said Alan. “Do you love him?”

“I’m not blind, Alan,” said Edith. “I know that what he has done is unspeakable. I know he’s a criminal.”

“And yet you’d defend him?” said Alan.

“I defend no one,” Edith said.

“Even if we escaped, how do we know they won’t try again, but with another girl?” said Alan. “And again, and again, and three, four, five, six women killed because of them?”

Edith could not say, because he changed, and be taken seriously. She knew this already. And yet, he had irrevocably, repentantly changed in a struggle, a fight, fighting tooth and nail, blood, sweat, and tears. And was that to amount to nothing but the gallows?

“I will not condemn my husband,” said Edith.

‘Husband’ made Alan purse his lips.

“You don’t have to do anything, if it’s too much,” said Alan. “I’ll take the responsibility. It wouldn’t be your fault—none of this is your fault, Edith, you don’t have to make up for anything.”

“Standing aside will condemn him too,” Edith said. “He spared your life and hid you away, Alan, so that I could come back to find you. He tried to stop Lucille from moving any further with the plan.”

“They poisoned you,” said Alan. “Edith, they wanted to kill you. What if I came one day later? Or not at all? Even if just to distract them from you—Edith, you could have _died_ because of them!”

His voice cracked at this. Edith backed down resignedly. She should have given thought to the situation Alan had been this whole time—sailing across the Atlantic out of worry for her only to find her dying and then was stabbed twice. His passion to bring justice upon Thomas and Lucille was ultimately for her sake, and she was the one protesting.

“And their death is the answer?” said Edith.

If Lucille and Thomas were still fighting to kill her, chasing her through this maze of a living mausoleum for her inheritance, she would have no hesitation in brandishing a knife to defend herself, life or death. As terrifying as that would be, Edith wondered if it would have been so much _easier_ if that were the case, instead of standing frozen, trying to will a decision in which both answers were either right or good but never both.

“They don’t deserve your mercy, Edith,” said Alan.

“No one deserves it,” said Edith. “That’s why it is mercy.”

Alan laid out the coats on the empty bedframe of the room. He picked one of them up—thick, long, the least moth-eaten. He held it out before Edith, as if to measure the length.

“This one would be good for you,” said Alan.

Edith did not take it readily. Alan lowered the coat.

“Do you mean to stay with him?” Alan said.

If he was incredulous, he did not show it. There was only sadness that tinged his voice.

She suddenly fantasized an alternate reality where none of this ever came to be. She just married Thomas who was true and without ulterior motives, she spent her days writing at the typewriter and tending to the dog. A Lucille who was not driven to despair by demons until humans became demons. Maybe Edith was never cut out to be an adventure heroine like the ones she wrote—death made her freeze in her steps. Justice left an ugly taste in her mouth. She could not decide whether to do what was right, or what was _right_.

“Not in this house,” Edith said. “No—I want to get out of here. I want to never set foot in Cumbria again.”

“But him, Edith,” said Alan. “Do you want to stay with _him_?”

She sensed the perversion of it all: driven by potential redemption and love and remorse to let the Sharpes untouched and free, even when three women suffered before her, three families and friends without their daughter, their companion. She knew the pain that was inevitable: two broken, tormented, miserable children so unloved and uncared for that their world perverted them, and when a kinder reality was finally within reach the pearly gates slam shut in their faces. No redemption, no rest, no tasting that chance of freedom from the hell that enslaved them.

“You’re asking me to give just a little bit of relief to this world,” she said, “or to give them a change in their world.”

“Do you really think you can change their world?” said Alan.

“I think getting hanged would definitely put a stopper to it,” said Edith.

She left the room. Conviction was heavy in her chest. She shook the dying moths off of her shoulders.

-

Lucille wished that Thomas could just stay asleep forever, in a world of dreams, not nightmares. No one felt pain in dreams when they weren’t nightmares. He was fragile in his sleep, peaceful, hers. But he was no longer hers, so she stroked his hair and coaxed him awake.

He stirred awake. His eyes were half-mast, sleepy, barely comprehending. He blinked rapidly to try to bring Lucille’s face into focus.

“Thomas,” she said. “My dear Thomas.”

He tried to smile. She wanted to cry.

“You know I love you,” she said. “Don’t you?”

He nodded. She pressed a kiss on his forehead. Heat lined her eyelashes.

“I love you,” she said.

She didn’t know the last time she said that to him, without saying anything else. She sat up straight again and reached for the tea set she had set on the nightstand. She poured the tea into each cup. It steamed—the only source of warmth in this room.

Thomas sat up slowly—it hurt him to do so. He watched Lucille carefully. The tea was black in the cup. He was always an intelligent boy. He feigned ignorance, but he never let it slip underneath his nose.

“What is this, Lucille?” he said.

“It will be quick,” Lucille said.

She poured tea into the other cup. She had put a little more poison in this cup than the other. If it would kill faster, swifter, painlessly, she would rather Thomas have it, even if it meant that she would have to watch him die before her.

“You won’t feel a thing,” Lucille said. Her hands shook. She spilled some hot water onto the tray. “It would be like falling asleep.”

“Why?” Thomas said. “Why this?”

“She will live, Thomas,” Lucille said. “And if she lives, then there is nothing left for us. Don’t you know, that when you are hanged, some do not die quickly—they are slowly strangled to death.” She raised her eyes to Thomas, who watched her so intently. “It would be slow, painful—too painful, Thomas.”

“Lucille—”

“And I cannot live without you, Thomas,” said Lucille. “Not alone, not in that madhouse, for the rest of my life, when you are gone so soon and I—have too many years left.”

She handed a teacup to Thomas. He took it, but did not take her eyes off of her. She held the cup between her own fingers—maybe it would be painful instead, wracking, agonizing, she did not know. But she would rather die in torture with Thomas by her side than alone, drifting off to sleep, with nothing left.

“We will not have to suffer, Thomas,” said Lucille. “We will never part. We will always be together.”

“Never apart,” Thomas echoed.

Lucille almost laughed. She did not know how to say goodbye.

She brought the teacup to her mouth—Thomas placed his hand over the rim.

“What are you doing?” Lucille said.

“You should live,” said Thomas.

“I’m not afraid of death,” said Lucille. “Are you?”

Thomas took the cup away from her. His gaze was so pained, and lost.

“Are you scared to die?” said Lucille.

“Yes,” said Thomas. “I’m afraid that we will go to Hell.”

Lucille laughed bitterly.

“What is Hell to us?” she said.

Thomas put his cup away and took Lucille’s hand. His hands were soft—Edith’s father had scorned him for it, but Thomas’ hands were the softest, gentlest touch that had ever fell upon her.

“Do you remember when we were learning our letters, as children,” said Thomas. “And when Father would tell us, Hell is when we are separated, hopelessly from God?”

“God has never been with us,” said Lucille.

“I once read a book in boarding school,” said Thomas. “There was a line—to love another person is to see the face of God. So if God is love, and in Hell we are hopelessly forever separated from Him, it will mean I cannot love in Hell.” He swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice shook. “I am afraid I will never see you again.”

Lucille pulled her hand away, but to cup his face, running her thumbs down the hollow of his cheeks. He was so fragile in her hands, full of everything that he never received himself in life. She asked him, this time, to stand by the window, to take her hand and jump, see if they free-fall because that would be the closest to flying they would ever get. He held her back, weighed her down to this earth, and loved her too dearly.

“If we live,” Lucille said, “we will never see each other again.”

“What if we lived, Lucille?” said Thomas. “What if we left Allerdale Hall, left Cumbria?”

Lucille jerked back. She shook her head fervently.

“No,” she said. “No—there’s nothing for us out there. The world is cold, it’s cruel, it’s—”

“You could have a new life, Lucille!” said Thomas. “You could have a home, a safe home, you could be happy. You could change your name, you could move to London—there is so much to see in London, you would be so happy, Lucille. I can take care of you. I will take care of you.”

“There’s nothing out there,” Lucille said. She was close to tears. “They will only spit on us, tear us apart and away from each other. There’s nothing for us there. There’s nothing for me there.”

“The world is not so cruel, Lucille,” said Thomas. “It will cherish you.”

“Hell will still wait for us,” Lucille said. “Hell is here.”

“Maybe it will not,” Thomas said. “But I cannot bear for you to die not knowing that you could be so loved.”

Lucille found that she had no breath to speak. She wanted no one else’s love but Thomas’—she knew of no one else’s love but his. Anyone else’s seemed impossible, unobtainable, ugly, painful, ruinous other than his.

“I am, already,” Lucille said. “I have you.”

“You deserve more,” said Thomas. “You deserve others’, you—”

“We’ll never be apart,” Lucille said. “Wouldn’t we?”

Because if she had Thomas, she had no one. Only Thomas ever knew her, ever cared for her, ever loved who he knew. She knew she was no saint, that she was hell-bound if there were such things as souls, and yet he loved her. She had manipulated him, cursed him, begged him, lied to him so that he would stay, and she deserved none of his love—but without it, she would be in Hell already.

“Wouldn’t we?” Lucille said.

Thomas brought her hand to his cheek. He was warm. All these years, they only had each other. She always questioned when it would end—feared it, dreaded it, avoided it. But for them, it always would come to an end.

“I’ll take care of you, Lucille,” Thomas said. “If that could be enough.”

He spoke in a hushed tone. He couldn’t blow out a candle with that breath.

-

The snow stopped. Alan would waste no time, so neither would Edith. She raced up the staircase for Thomas’ (and once, hers) bedroom.

She threw open the doors. She did not know what she came for—to say goodbye, to assure herself that they were still alive, to assure herself something, to make a decision she had already vied for. She would cut the ties between her heart and her husband’s, or at least unravel them so that they could not break each other anymore.

The bed was empty. Her breath hitched—had they already gone before she? Had they tricked her, somehow, and left them stranded in their dead home?—until she saw Thomas by the window, at the desk, writing. His hands shook as they wrote. His face was strained and pale from the effort, and he looked as if he would tip out of the chair at any moment.

When Edith came into the room, he looked up immediately. A smile broke across his face, which in turn broke her. Despite everything, he was so happy to see her. She wished she could feel the same. Dreading relief was not quite the same.

“Edith,” said Thomas.

Edith hurried forward as he stood from the seat. Neither of them stopped to consider whether this was right, whether they ought to, before they embraced. His arms enveloped her so easily. She held to him tightly. His heart beat against her cheek.

“I am not staying,” she said. “I can’t.”

Thomas rested his cheek against the top of her head. If he was crestfallen, if he had been hopeful despite all the sin that welled up to their chin in these halls, he did not let any of that slip to her. She remembered how much she had loved him. She risked to let herself believe how much he loved her.

“I won’t tell,” she said. She frightened herself with those words, but she did not recant. “I won’t.”

“Tell,” said Thomas. “It is just.”

“You will die,” said Edith.

They pulled away. Thomas blinked back tears. Edith had no room for tears yet. There was too much at risk to wait for the tears to finish.

“Why should I live?” said Thomas. “If others have not because of me?”

“I don’t know,” said Edith. Maybe it was because he repented, he held his bloodied, guilty hands over his head and asked that they be cut off, for others’ sake, maybe because he loved and loved until it spread and was soiled by the world it touched. “I don’t know, but I want you to live. Not suffocate—in this prison or a jail cell, in your past.”

“Do you love me, Edith?” said Thomas.

He spoke softly. Her answer could be the blade that cut their tethered hearts apart, once and for all, and they could part ways and never think again. But instead, she tightened the knot, because she meant it when she said she could never forget him, not like this.

“You’re my husband, Thomas,” Edith said. “I love you, even when I can’t.”

The words themselves seemed to melt him, until he would fall into a heap on the floor, knees collapsing beneath him. But he held himself composed, if only by breath alone. He took the paper from the desk and folded it, once, twice, and slipped it into the envelope, already addressed.

“Would you take this with you?” Thomas said. “And post it immediately?”

“What is it?” said Edith.

“I know an old classmate from the boarding school I had attended,” said Thomas. “He had done business ventures with me. He would write.”

Edith took it. The letter was small and light. She felt as if he had passed him a planet. She looked up at him, eyes darting about his face in search of an answer. His face was soft, resigned.

“I cannot let Lucille die in a madhouse,” he said. “I cannot subject her to that. I’m taking her away.”

“I won’t tell,” said Edith.

“McMichael would,” said Thomas.

“I’ll urge him not to,” said Edith.

“We would deserve it,” said Thomas. “But this house—there’s nothing left for her here. There’s nothing but ghosts. If she stays here, she will only become one.” He held Edith’s hands, he spoke quickly. “If life had been kinder to her, you would have seen how she would have been, Edith. You would have known how good she would be.”

Edith could not protest. His eyes were so earnest, so genuine, she did not know if she could doubt him, even if her heart did.

“Where would you go?” said Edith.

“There’s a town north of here,” he said. “Three days’ travel.”

“Three days?” said Edith.

“That letter would reach my acquaintance before we do,” said Thomas. “God willing, he would help her.”

Thomas was breathing heavily. He was leaning against the table, his eyes were barely focused. His chest was still heavily bandaged. The cold still burned outside, as if racing to harbor souls into its mouth. He looked like a mirage seen through snowfall, fast to drift away.

“Thomas,” she said. “You will not survive the journey.”

Thomas said nothing. He held her hands tightly, but even then his grip was so weak.

“I will take care of you all,” said Thomas.

He was condemning himself—Edith knew it, and she would believe that Thomas knew it too. Thomas doomed them both—he loved Lucille too much, and Lucille loved him too much, but there was no hope to draw strength from outside. If Edith and Thomas’ hearts were linked, tied together, bonded, then Thomas and Lucille’s were chained together, melded, scorched under blacksmith’s forge—when Thomas would die, what else could Lucille do but follow?

From below, Alan’s voice called out for her—panicked, urgent. The snow has stopped, it’s time to _go,_ Edith. Edith did not know how to pull away. She never said goodbyes—she was not allowed to see Mother’s body, and Father was taken away too quickly for her to even say good morning to him for the last time. Thomas was here—right before her—and she knew she would never see him again.

“Come with us,” she said. “You can start a new life with us. New name. We’ll move to Scotland, to Canada, anywhere you would want. We’ll cease to be Sharpe. You’ll taste a new world.”

“I cannot leave Lucille,” said Thomas.

“Then she comes too,” said Edith. She swallowed hard. “We could all grow old together.”

Thomas closed his eyes. Say yes, Edith urged. She didn’t know how their plan would work at all. If it was possible to run away from justice, to hide until one day it would catch up, inevitably. She didn’t know if a soul so heavily damaged for so long could ever be healed, and she knew she did not have everything it took to bring upon that. But when confronted with the choice—live, and lose, she scrambled to piece together a semblance of another way.

Alan called for her again. She turned toward the door, torn.

“Go,” said Thomas.

She pressed her wrist against her mouth, trying to hold back a cry. She didn’t know what to do.

“You will not survive the journey,” she whispered.

“You’ve saved me already, Edith,” said Thomas.

He would not come with her. She wanted to free him, he wanted to free her. Perhaps all their efforts were futile.

“If you ever look back into the past,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

She took his face between her hands. He kissed her. She let him. When they emerged, their cheeks were wet with someone else’s tears.

“Go,” he said.

His eyes were closed. She held tight to his hand. Three days from now, she wondered if he would haunt her. It was too soon.

“Edith!” Alan cried again.

She took a breath, as if plunging into the waters, the abyss, and ran. Out the room, down the staircase, took Alan’s wrist and ran out into the snow. There was so much snow upon the ground, even the clay could not drench it all.

 


End file.
